


The Devil To Pay

by FalleNess, Gwyllt



Series: Enemies with benefits [4]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Drama, Fix-It, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied Slash, Interrogation, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Resslington, Suffering Donald Ressler, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/pseuds/FalleNess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: Actions have consequences.The question is when to pay the price.//Reddington pulls at Ressler's nape, weaving his fingers into Ressler's wet hair.“There is an infinite amount of time and resources at my disposal, Agent Ressler.” He pulls him down, his eyes locked on the agent. “I'm not so sure about you.”
Relationships: Donald Ressler & Raymond Reddington, Donald Ressler/Raymond Reddington, Raymond Reddington & Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Series: Enemies with benefits [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1419496
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	1. 120V, 15A

**Author's Note:**

> My AUish take on the Brussel's op. Rough sh!t (see the tags), 18+ recommended.  
> *  
> All my love for Gwyllt, whom I had a pleasure to craft and conjure the Russian version of this story with. Red and Ressler wouldn't have breathed without you, thank you so much!  
> *  
> As usual, my Red and Ressler may be OOC to the original show, hence the tag, although I consider them in character af.  
> I treat Red as bisexual in this headcanon (because why tf not).  
> Please, mind that I consider Red to be born in Russia, and my backstory for him is different than on the TBL. You can check my Gardez fanfic for more.  
> *  
> DECIPHERING CHAPTERS' NAMES  
> 120V, 15A — standard voltages/frequencies in the US.  
> φ=const  
> φ is the electric potential, or voltage, is the difference in potential energy per unit charge between two locations in an electric field.  
> const (a constant; in mathematics, a non-changeable, stable value); something that always stays the same and never changes  
> R->0  
> The resistance drops to zero in a short circuit (a bad electrical connection that causes the current to flow in the wrong direction, often having the effect of stopping the power supply).  
> *  
> Lyrics from Papa Roach's "Life is a bullet."

**_Life is a bullet_ **

**_It's tearing through you and me_ **

He is “number one” among the century’s top three most notorious criminals according to Interpol; MI6’s wet dream is to string him up for the “The Shard Incident”, and the CIA can’t wait to lock him up at one of their black sites in the middle of the Pacific ocean.

* * *

Arm a guerrilla group? Trace an unscrupulous associate? Be gone in twenty-four hours? Lay your hands on classified intel?

Raymond “Red” Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, at your service.

* * *

_Brussels, May 2010_

Biding goodbye to another client of his, Reddington gets in a car. Contemplating how to distribute the percentage of the successfully closed deal, he uncorks a bottle of _Cheval Blanc._

The cork jumps out of the bottle’s neck with a gentle pop.

He brings the glass to his mouth. Inhales the subtle hint of menthol and takes a sip—the aroma drifts off, and a tart blueberry taste with a delicate touch of caramel sweetness rolls across his tongue. Savoring the wine, Reddington looks down onto the bustling street.

Brussels Central Station is a stone’s throw from here, but the heavy traffic forces him waiting at the traffic lights. Watching the crowds through the tinted glass, Red smirks. One more hour—and he’ll be resting on his jet while these poor unfortunate souls are crowding in the tickets line.

The car takes off, but a couple of intersections after it halts, trapped in a traffic jam again. Reddington pours himself more wine. ...How many? Ten years ago? Seven? He’s only begun dipping his fingers into luxury: a wine cellar at his villa in Majorca, a VIP-carriage ticket, a few of thousands splurged on a _Zegna_ tie.

Shipping arms to Yemen through one of the logistic companies he controls. Financing the two lesser-known, yet talented virologists. Smuggling cocaine from Miami to Caracas, and from there—to Spain. A front for cleaning up cash, disguised as the hotel for cats, not far from Wall Street. Investing in the start-up run by two students, expelled from MIT. 

Before, it has been physical copies of classified NOFORN documents. Now—a few taps on the keyboard are enough. Many would give a handsome sum of money for the information hidden in the meaningless sequences of zeroes and ones. Demand creates supply, and he’s ready to satisfy any of his customers’—same crooks and outlaws he is—whims. For a generous fee, of course.

The car halts at another _Chocolatier_ shop-window. Viscous chocolate spirals down the fountain, curling in loops. Chocolate figures, in various shapes and sizes, lying on a rainbow candies and caramels pillow: soldiers, cars, animals… _Couques de dinant_ biscuits hang on numerous thin threads, reflecting on the glass.

Reddington pours more wine. Once, he has bitten into a _couques de dinant,_ almost breaking his tooth. In a few years, he’s mastered the art of eating it: break it into pieces, pop a small piece into the mouth—not swallowing it just yet—and let it soften on your tongue while simultaneously admiring the view of the night Grand-Place from the rooftop of The Palace of Justice. Add a glass of an off-dry white wine and a taste of woman’s lips, sweetened by the honeyed aftertaste—and you’ve been to Brussels.

Someone in a uniform and a white apron approaches the shop window from the inside of the sweet shop. Male hands arrange the figures, sorting those out by flavor: white chocolate with nuts, dark chocolate with raisins, bitter chocolate… It’s not possible to see the man’s face—he’s too tall, and his face is indiscernible behind the chocolate fountain.

Reddington, taking a sip, grins at the memory. His first time here, he has been sitting at a patisserie, waiting for a client. Out of boredom, he watches a _pâtissier_ —a quiet boy with fair hair—stirring chocolate.

_“I want to buy this patisserie.”_

_“Sorry, it’s n-not on s-sale.”_

_“But you don't even know what you’re missing.”_

_“I’m s-sorry, b-but—”_

_“Ten minutes after closing, it’s all I ask.”_

Ten minutes after closing extend into a delightful couple of hours at one of _JW Marriott's_ luxurious suites.

Reddington finishes his wine.

Smoothly, the car starts off the road. The Central Station looms up in front—a monumental celebration of architectural thought in glassed monotony. Rolling the tinted window up, Red breathes the street in—the smell of the wet asphalt, burnt rubber, and crunchy Belgian waffles sold on every corner.

When he passes the pastry cafe, another memory pops into his head—the time he almost misses his train, waiting in a line to buy Belgian truffles. Of course, he could have left this trivia to someone else, but sometimes, just for a couple of moments, he wishes to be an ordinary passenger who hurries to catch his train. It turns out—he shouldn't have hurried at all. At the station, back from the last walk around the downtown, he buys a giant, twice as his two palms size, cinnamon-flavored pretzel.

After all these years, he remembers this scent—the scent of home.

Home, he lost many years ago.

The station is left behind, but Reddington asks the driver to do a U-turn. A few instants after he lifts his hand to catch the closing door and enters the building. He shudders from the stinging wind and then looks up. It has completely slipped his mind that the station is under the open sky. It indeed is; nothing has changed since his first visit—one can spot the clouds at the center of the ceiling.

Space is humming, stomping, clinking, clapping—and he lets this organized chaos to swallow himself up. At least, for the time being, until he gets to the shop he needs. In front of him, an old man chooses the sweets, asking a young woman behind the counter, which flavor is the best. Reddington cast glances at his watch, guessing, how much a delay would cost him. _It’s on you,_ his inner voice grunts.

Finally, the man leaves Red and the young woman alone. He has already decided what to buy: a bar of dark chocolate, a bar of white, and one pretzel.

“Gift wrap?”

He stares at the box with a crimson ribbon, reminding him of the past.

_“Mom, it ties not!”_

_“A magic word first, sweetheart.”  
_

Reddington doesn't get to answer the question—a gust of wind blows his fedora off. He dives in to catch it; his eyes skim further and hang onto the shop’s wall... Precisely—onto a neat hole, lesser than an inch.

His body reacts faster than his mind—it darts sideways—and only halfway through the realization strikes him.

_Saved by a miracle._

The seller gives him a confused look, her fingers clutching at his purchase.

“Sorry, honey, I’ve changed my mind.”

He tries to run not too fast, instinctively plunging into the crowd and maneuvering among people. He takes a burner out—his driver’s number is on speed dial. Not waiting for an answer, he barks the orders at the driver, telling him to wait at the opposite street—and then breaks the flip-phone in half and tosses it onto rails. Good luck retrieving the data, whoever you are.

Running takes its toll on him—the stabbing pain hits him below the ribs as if someone guts him open with a blunt knife. Red wipes the sweat off his forehead, takes a sharp left into a vacant hallway, and makes a dive for the first wide-open door, catching a glimpse of the sign from the corner of his eye: **STAFF ONLY.** He has a few minutes until the shooter—or his associates—start sweeping the building to finish him off.

Taking his jacket, shirt, and vest off, Reddington tosses them into a laundry basket. Uniform lockers in his sights, he pulls his gun out of his belt and knocks the wobbly locks off, looking for his size. The uniform is hideously gray—but there’s not much to choose from. He puts on the shirt; fastens the first few buttons; after—checks the mag and then racks the slide.

His gun drawn, he looks down the hallway.

No one.

“ _DEAR VISITORS, PLEASE STAY WHERE YOU ARE AND KEEP CA...”_

Red doesn't listen and breaks into a run. He stops at another intersection to let out a breath—it isn’t much fun at his age. He barely gets to—a hundred feet from him, give or take, he hears voices.

“...not gone far.”

He bolts out, wondering, what are the odds to make it out alive. At the next turn—a life-saving sign with a green arrow.

Hiding his gun, he pulls the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's real short, and it took me ages to translate it, ugh. But anyways, I hope you'll like it.  
> Pls, drop a kudos/comment, if you do. <3


	2. φ=const

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> φ=const  
> φ is the electric potential, or voltage, is the difference in potential energy per unit charge between two locations in an electric field.  
> const (a constant; in mathematics, a non-changeable, stable value); something that always stays the same and never changes  
> //  
> I wouldn't have done it without my breathtaking, precious partner in crime, Gwyllt. I love you.  
> //  
> SEE THE TAGS.
> 
> Below are graphic descriptions of violence, including (but not limited to) beating, hanging, waterboarding and electrocution. 
> 
> Proceed at your own risk.

More than twenty years in this business have taught him that luck never turns her back on you for no reason.

* * *

_A private jet over France, two hours after the assassination attempt, May 2010_

Musing, Red gazes through the window, where the sullen blue of the twilight skies refuses to give in to the dark.

“Mister Reddington, can I get you something?” Nina asks, leaning over him. She is one of many private jet advantages.

“No, thanks. Have a rest.”

As Nina leaves, his thoughts are coming back to swarm in his head again.

He distracts himself with work for some time: considers new investment options, reviews the reports from his bookkeepers, makes a few important (and not) calls, secures a flexible deposit in the Cayman National.

Just as he's ready to shut the laptop down, a new email notification pops up. No return addressee, only one word:

**FBI.  
**

FBI? In Brussels?

Looks like his reliable source in Interpol is not that reliable, after all. He dials a number to give the instructions.

“...an accident. Kids...?” After some pause, Red adds: “Only him.” He snaps a black flip-phone shut.

FBI… He would have rather bet on a competitor than on a herd of rams chasing him all over Europe for the past four years!

Raising hell on _Costiera Amalfitana_ (Alberto hasn't forgiven him the annihilated villa), these morons have been tailing him to Barcelona, then—got to him at Porto (one hundred boxes of _Burmerster_ , a present to one of his business partners, have been blown up together with his yacht).

It might be a wise decision not to set a foot in there for now; the locals won't forget the fire soon:

six yachts, four motorboats, and a fishing boat going up in flames on a pier.

* * *

He dies twice in his life.

First time—watching his father beating up his mother. Barely alive. Later, much later, Red will take his vengeance on a person who has sold them out to his father, Major General Vladimir Gronsky.

_“You thought I won't find out?”_

_Punch._

_“Won't find out who fixed you up with the fakes to cross the border?”_

_Another._

_His mother sags down._

_“Whore,” Gronsky spits on the floor. “Hey, Nad'ka, how's it going in your americas?” He kicks her in the stomach. “Sergiy Rodionov? Remember him? Sacked from the ministry. Because of you, by the way. Sucked his dick off a while, huh? So he'd set up you and your little bitch in here.”_

His mother couldn't have known that he would spend his summer job money on a handgun. It turns out anyone can buy a weapon in the States, one just needs to know the right places.

_“Andryusha, no!”_

The second time he dies in Marrakesh.

He doesn't remember the reason negotiations go south—either he refuses to back down, or his partner finds the terms not attractive enough.

As words are spoken, the argument sparks a shooting. The bullet runs through his chest, at the dangerous proximity to his heart.

Later they will tell him that he's been dead for two minutes straight, and only his doctors' efforts have brought him back.

The same evening he drowns himself with rum and whiskey to a complete blackout, hoping to erase his memory. Not because what he has seen on the other side scares him.

He is scared because at that moment he _wants_ to die.

_“I don't want to go back. I'm not leaving you, not again.”_

* * *

  
The FBI, destroying the op's evidence, hasn't considered this: patience, a few hundreds of spare hands, and glue do wonders, transforming meaningless print on the white strips into a pristine document.

Two days—and two manila folders lie on his desk, containing the details of a covert op, designed to eliminate a threat to the national security, “The Concierge of Crime” known as Raymond “Red” Reddington.

* * *

First twenty pages, the highest-ranking officers refuse to take responsibility in case the op turns into a flop; the next ten—arguing, how much tax-payers money to pump into the budget.

* * *

Glancing through the last few pages, he hangs onto a neat, impeccable signature at the bottom of the page, exactly within the signature field.

 **Task Force Leader: Special Agent** _Donald Ressler._

* * *

_An abandoned McMillan Sand Filtration Site, Washington D.C., USA_

Reddington’s jeep halts at the chainlink fence lining the McMillan Sand Filtration Site. It’s difficult to call it a site now: over-sized mushrooms—concrete silos, once filled with sand to clean the water—are sticking out of the heat-burnt grass, and the main building is barely holding up on spalling bricks.

Reddington sends the driver back home and approaches the gates on his own. A rusty lock hangs for a show rather than for security, and he knocks it off with his gun.

It’s been a month since the assassination attempt on him, and Red doesn’t have a clue how on earth the FBI has ended up knowing about his business in Brussels. He constantly moves around the cities, not spending more than a week at the same place, and does the audit at the end of each month. In the evenings, instead of savoring Bernard’s _plat du jour_ (he has never regretted investing in his bankrupt restaurant—now packed with Hollywood stars), he keeps reliving the day on the railway station over and over.

Where has he slipped up? Where...?

Treading across the grass, Red draws out a handkerchief from his inside pocket, lifts his white fedora, and wipes the sweat off his forehead—the June’s sun is still shining in the sky, although it’s already four in the afternoon. When he reaches the main entrance, he pulls the metal door open.

His oxfords sink into the scattered sand, the dust clogging up his nose. He sneezes, muttering that he could have rented an apartment, or even better, a cold-room. At least, it’s clean on the inside. He’s already bitter about coming here straight from his meeting and not changing his clothes—nothing to do here in a white suit.

As if answering his indignation, something crunches under his sole.

Reddington looks down, trying not to think about what his white pants have turned into—the sand is over. Syringes, used condoms, and beer cans are lying around in a jumble of splintered glass and half-burnt paper. Maneuvering around each obstacle, he finally walks into a hallway.

Catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, Red quickens his pace and soon pauses at the empty doorjamb. 

He enters and takes his sunglasses off—he is in the northern part of the site, and the sun doesn't peek in here. Window frames, glass broken, are shaking from the gusts of wind. Under his feet, the draft is whiffing from drainage grates.

Something drips onto his shoulder, and Red raises his eyes. The water slowly trickles down the brick wall from the rusty pipe under the ceiling.

At the fuse box, Teddy Brimley is fumbling around—more ancient than Buddha, yet vigorous nevertheless. He has a vast experience of making people talk, utilizing the most unlikely tools for his trade: a face cream, gas mask, bees, bulky phone books... And even well-placed wine corks.

The old man is so submerged in the task that he doesn't hear him.

“Brimley!” Reddington calls him, raising his voice a bit. Brimley turns to him, a smile spread across his face.

“Mister Reddington! I've almost finished here. The circuit here is too powerful, but this,”—Brimley gives a friendly pat to a metal box in which Red, after a moment, recognizes a transformer—“will allow us to control the routine. Ah, and this,”—he res at Red to come in closer—“you'll like it, I'm sure.”

Red notices a defibrillator in Brimley's hands.

“The last time I checked, we don't raise the dead,” Reddington says, not sharing Brimley's enthusiasm.

“No-no, have a look...” Brimley plugs a defibrillator into the transformer and then adjusts the knobs. “I have pulled the fuses out and turned off the step-up transformer inside, that way—”

“You lifted the circuit restrictions, I understand,” Reddington is losing his patience. Better be done with this and get back to business. “So where is the—”

“Next room.” Brimley scurries to the exit. “I thought you'd want to chat first, and then...”

Stepping across a threshold, Red doesn't listen. His eyes slither down a man hung from the ceiling. His ginger hair a faded sponge, and the bruises on his face accentuate his highwayman charms. Almost a highwayman—but for a dangling crimson tie and soot-stained shirt, he would have fit into this image.

Reddington's eyes linger on the man's face: a gray strip of the duct tape seals his mouth.

Two brawny men in black jackets and dark jeans turn their heads to Reddington simultaneously.

“I need him talking, and you duct-taped his mouth. May I ask, why?”

“He was...er...making noise,” one of the goons says.

Reddington rolls his eyes.

“My apologies, Agent Ressler,” he reaches out and carefully pries loose the duct tape's corner with one quick movement. The agent shudders but doesn't make a sound. “For required inconveniences.” He searches for something to sit on and finds a dirty three-legged chair in the corner of the room. “I understand what you must be feeling now. I'd be beyond disappointed too—to fall for a cheap trick with a neighbor and a stuck door...”

He lifts the chair off the ground and puts it down on its legs, draws a handkerchief from his inside pocket, and spreads it out on the seat, after—raises his eyes at the agent.

“Nothing is as resource-draining as seeing danger in every shadow, Agent Ressler. Don't punish yourself.”

Reddington settles on a chair and clasps his hands over his stomach. A pause hovers in the air—Ressler is hanging in front of him, sweat droplets, mixed with blood, are dripping off his nose, but he doesn't mouth a word.

“I understand this too,” Reddington says, inquisitively studying the agent's face. “You're afraid to talk because you don't know why you're here. Don't know how much I know, afraid to reveal what I don't know. Let me put your mind at ease—I know enough.”

Ressler doesn't avert his eyes—his stubborn stare is drilling Reddington through. Red appreciates it: _he has what it takes._ Perhaps, this intrigues him more than it should, and he gestures at the guards to leave.

“You tried to get my attention, now I've understood. Italy, Spain, Portugal... It was you. You and your galère of _special_ ”—Red is smirking—“agents.”

He rises from the chair and goes to where the guard has used to sit. Opening a gym bag, he draws a bottle of water out. Back to Ressler, he twists the cap off and gives the bottle to him. Ressler makes an uncertain gesture with his head, but his dry lips and hungry eyes tell a different story.

“Don't be an idiot.”

Reddington takes a sip from the bottle and then pulls the steel cable down, watching Ressler's body gradually lower against the floor. He cradles Ressler's neck with his hand and brings the water to his lips. For a brief moment, Ressler hesitates, but eventually gulps the liquid.

“Alright, that's enough,” Red puts the bottle away, out of Ressler's reach. Coming back to his chair, he makes himself comfortable and bores his eyes into Ressler—one must give him that, he has never broken an eye contact all this time.

“When I was at school, I knew a boy. Willie—what's his name...? Ah, right, Baker, Willie Baker. You know, he was a lot like you, yes... Once, he caught and ate a bee in front of our teacher—a venturous attempt to prove it is brimming with honey. As fate would have it, his first and last experiment." Red scrutinizes the agent's face—impenetrable, glistening with sweat, his eyes glaring. _Obstinate._ “Allergy to bee venom,” he deadpans. Silent, he roams over the room. "Spine-chilling, isn't it? No wonder it's been on sale for ages."

Ressler doesn't move. Doesn't blink either—as if he wants to burn a hole in his suit with his eyes. Rather, he huffs: Reddington discerns hoarse breathing in the silence. It's obvious this strenuous position makes him uncomfortable, at the very least, yet his face is impenetrable: a man must show no weakness.

Red's eyes travel up and down Ressler—once more, to adjust the first impression image—and he takes his hat off, brushing the dust off it.

“Alright, Donald, let me be frank: I've underestimated you, and I was wrong, I admit. I see that we both know how to play this game: first, they torture the living hell of you, then, a good Samaritan pays you a visit, makes the bad fellas disappear, gains your trust with a few simple gestures, and offers you a chance to disburden your conscience to avoid suffering again... But you're too good an agent to fall into this trap. I won't torment your hearing anymore, preserve my words and your patience, and move straight to phase three.” Reddington tilts his head aside, his lips twisted in a wide grin: “We both know you aren't telling me anything, are you, Donald?”

Ressler's jaw twitches.

“That's what I thought,” Red rises from the chair, adjusts his jacket, and folds the handkerchief into his pocket. “Brimley!” Brimley and the guards enter the room at the very second. “Do whatever you have to, on one condition—no visible marking. I do not want your style tracked.”

At the threshold, Reddington turns his head to Ressler.

“One way or another, you are going to tell me everything I want to know, Agent Ressler.”

* * *

Hung again, Ressler is writhing like a beached whale. Not for long—a few punches in his stomach, and he doesn't put up any resistance. Reddington, all ears, is trying to decipher Brimley's jabbering: they'd better give their “guest” a warm-up first. In all honesty, Red doesn't give two hoots about mediums used, if only they loosen Ressler's tongue.

“Before we start, here, take these,” Brimley gives him a pair of earplugs.

 _As if there is any difference,_ Reddington thinks. He is rarely present to see Brimley at work: usually, he savors a glass of wine and a good book in the next room until invited in.

However, Agent Ressler is a unique case. Each time he asks himself _why_ this boy stirs his curiosity so much, the reason slips through his fingers.

Red gets comfortable at the window, watching Ressler being bound and hung from a ceiling by his feet, the agent's head now facing a portable floorstanding speaker.

A woman's vocals, completely out of tune, and a percussion echo are vibrating through Red's earplugs. He wrinkles up his face, shifting his gaze onto Ressler: his teeth clenched, he is wriggling like an enormous worm not yet crushed by a shoe.

Brimley is gesticulating wildly at the guards. Wrapping the baseball bats with terrycloth towels, they start swinging them: back, stomach, chest, left side, right side. Like a piñata, Ressler spins around over and over, but instead of candies, cussing spills out of him.

* * *

  
With a sigh of relief, Red removes the earplugs and massages his ears, while Brimley is stomping at the toolbox.

“He's more stubborn than a mule,” Brimley rants. Swirling clamps in his hands, he throws them back into the toolbox. “All I could pull out is ‘Blow me, asshole’,” he sputters, fumbling around in a toolbox. This time—in a compartment with gags, zip ties, and ropes.

“Do what you have to do.”

The boy's obstinacy is becoming vexatious; a little longer—and Red will violate his own order not to leave any markings. He turns on his heels and strides across Ressler to the opposite side.

Any idiot can take out a fed. The tricky part is to cover your tracks. Additional expenses for a fixer, who, of course, will charge extra; greasing someone's palm at the morgue (as much as one wants, “no body—no crime” brings zero satisfaction to feds—no stone is left unturned for one of theirs); blackmailing an overly inquisitive member of a fed's family... If you're lucky enough, you'll lose your tail and hole up somewhere on Cabo Verde.

Reddington turns his face to Ressler. There's something old school about him, a vague reminiscence of ages where courageous lads sacrifice their life for the princess. Though, in his halfway unbuttoned shirt, he resembles a typical hunk on a cheap bodice-ripper.

Ressler, as if reading his thoughts, opens his swollen eyelid and involuntarily licks his dry lips.

Reddington fails to gather the words in an utterance when all of a sudden Brimley blows up at the guards:

“What do you mean ‘No water?!’ This is the filtration site, for heaven's sake! Fetch the water! Or I'll feed you both to my lizards, boneheads!”

Reddington stifles a smile—one couldn't have guessed it about Brimley, but his words are far from empty threats. On Brimley's farm, Reddington has witnessed himself a lounge of Komodo dragons who exclusively consume human meat. Quite convenient if one wants to save on a fixer.

At last, the guards come back with two canisters of water.

“What are you waiting for? Unhook, sit him down, restrain. Move!”

“Watch out, Brimley, if you keep it this way, I'll have to cut you in,” Reddington says, the corners of his lips turn up in a smile.

“Send me back into my twenties, and I'll show them,” Brimley grumbles.

Red laughs softly and then glances at Brimley's back—he throws his hands up and down, enunciating his orders to the guards. They seat Ressler on a chair and lay him down on his back. He, of course, puts up a fight. Across his chest, stiff rope threads are tightening when he tries to shake off the guard's elbow.

Brimley dampens a cloth with water and then quickly covers Ressler's face. At once, another goon squeezes the agent's temples so Ressler won't jerk his head up. Nodding at the guards to be on the qui vive, Brimley takes a small canister and pours the water on Ressler.

Ressler coughs. Not hard at first because Brimley pours out the water bit by bit, asking questions in between.

Red draws himself closer. Right on time: despite the guard's effort, Ressler's head rhythmically bangs against the floor, and a gurgling sound leaves his throat, like soap bubbles blowing on the inside. When the water stops for an instant, Ressler hungrily gasps for air, his mouth opening and closing under the thick cloth.

Reddington, squatted on the ground, asks quietly:

“Your government doesn't consider it torture, Agent Ressler. And what is your opinion?” He doesn't see the face—the agent's lips are mouthing the words under the wet cloth.

In the fourth minute, Ressler screams his head off as if a dog has bitten down on his balls. He screams but doesn't answer any questions.

* * *

Brimley barks orders at the guards again—pull the rope taut for necessary height, take Ressler's shirt and tie off, put his hands behind his back, and zip-tie them...

Reddington slides his gaze up and down Ressler's body. There's a bullet wound scar on the right side of his chest. Not more than a cent, give or take. It stirs up memories: Piazza San Marco, bodies in bulletproof vests collapsing onto the masegni, cries, bullets whistling...

“Mister Reddington.” Electrode pads applied, Brimley takes a step back to the defibrillator. Making sure everything is set up as it should be, he leans down to open the toolbox. “Please, put these on,” he gives him a pair of black latex gloves.

Slipping into the gloves, Reddington fixes his eyes on Ressler: his head is down, but Red knows he is conscious—Ressler snorts like a ferocious bull on corrida.

“Last chance, Agent Ressler.”

Ressler spits on the floor, not a word uttered.

Reddington nods at Brimley. A short beep, and then Brimley turns the knob halfway.

An instant—and Ressler's body is arched. He growls through his gritted teeth—Brimley presses some other button—and Ressler cries out, his body lurching forward.

Be-e-ep!

He sways from side to side like Iberian ham—reddened and wet just the same.

“I admire your loyalty to the cause, Agent Ressler. But take a good look,”—Reddington gestures around the room—“is it worth it? Do you really want to breathe your last”—he kicks at the beer can with his shoe, tossing it aside—“in this hole?”

Ressler half-opens one eye.

“Fuck...you.”

Reddington steps back—Ressler is shaking from side to side, and the pipe he hangs from is creaking threateningly. Red looks up—rusty drops have crept up around the metal surface. He snorts inaudibly, moving his gaze at the window.

“Funny thing is, I've never been to this part of D.C. You ever noticed how different it feels away from skyscrapers? More...intense?”

Instead of an answer, follows a groan.

As Red circles Ressler, the soles of his shoes are squelching in the puddles of water. Despite the violet-blue hematomas from baseball bats spreading all over his body, Ressler tries to keep himself upright, his broad shoulders indicating a permanent commitment to a gym routine. Circling back, Red draws himself so close to Ressler's face that he sees a droplet of sweat trickling off his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth caked with dried blood.

“Who was it, Donald?”

“Fuck...your...self.”

“FBI is nothing but a horde of idiots, incapable to locate their own ass with GPS... But Donald,”—Reddington's voice drops an octave, deepening, his tone intimate—“you are different. It was your idea, wasn't it? Using someone on the inside to deliver the blow, exacerbate the suffering... So who was it, Donald?”

“I d-don't...kn—”

Reddington pulls at Ressler's nape, weaving his fingers into Ressler's wet hair.

“There is an infinite amount of time and resources at my disposal, Agent Ressler.” He pulls him down, his eyes locked on the agent. “I'm not so sure about you.”

Ressler's tobacco-green—amusing, considering the circumstances—eyes are opened wide: thin threads of broken capillaries are filling up the whites, frozen tears gleaming on the eyelids' edges—isn't from weakness, but pressure.

He doesn't cry.

Reddington lets go of his nape. Ressler's eyes are vacant; Red is certain he's trying to predict the next move, figuring the way to turn the situation to his advantage...

The defibrillator's beeping is muffled by an incessant yell—Ressler is shaking even more violently than before, his head jerking from side to side like a badly sewn stuffed toy.

Gesturing at one of the guards, Red rattles off the instructions and makes himself comfortable on a chair. His eyes fixed on Ressler, he straightens and crosses his legs.


	3. R->0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R->0  
> The resistance drops to zero in a short circuit (a bad electrical connection that causes the current to flow in the wrong direction, often having the effect of stopping the power supply).

“...FUCK YOU!”

“It seems we’ve hit the wall, Agent Ressler. Brimley, please.”

“S-SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

* * *

  
“...YOU DEAF?!!”

“So far, so good, thank you very much... Oh, wait, it is Enrique? We've had an unfortunate misunderstanding lately. You see, he took the liberty of changing the supplier and didn't mention it to me. And clients began asking ques—”

“F-FUCK ENR-R-RIQUE! AND-D-D F-FUCK YOU T-TOO!”

“Hate to puncture your balloon, but you're not his type. Besides, Enrique has quite an opinion on sodomites—he’d rather put them out like rabid mutts. I, of course, strongly disagree with him on this matter and would have shot him myself in the first place, but business is business.”

* * *

  
“..the shooter's name is redacted. It was you?”

“Who...f-f-fuck...ing...cares?”

“Quench my curiosity, Donald. No...? It's a shame, I could've offered him—or her—a job. I appreciate genuine talent.”

* * *

  
Reddington takes a glance at his watch—Brimley’s been working round-the-clock for almost five hours, and Ressler is tight-lipped all the same. Doesn't speak a word or a coherent utterance.

He screams.

Reddington doesn’t hear him; he sees Ressler’s tensed muscles, veins on his neck bulged and strained under pressure, his mouth opened wide—a little more, and it’ll pop up in half.

He removes a pair of earplugs and then opens a beer can, lifting the tab neatly, and the foam bubbles over the narrow edge. A glass of Cabernet—a sacrilege under these circumstances, however you look at it. It's highly unlikely that a bodega in a working-class neighborhood has the craft Octoberfest beer in stock.

He brings the can to his mouth, the hops' bitterness permeating his tongue.

_“I'd say he’s good for two more, three—tops. Of course, if you insist...”_

_“Alright, let's take a break then.”_

Ressler, electrode pads removed off his chest, is swaying idly on a chain. His chest is marked with burns' threads, and hematomas on his sides and back have acquired a bluish-green hue.

“Uh, people don't have the remotest idea what a real beer tastes like...” Reddington swirls an empty can in his hand and then puts it onto the floor next to the chair. “I'll keep in mind the brand. Might prove quite a torture device next time.”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” Ressler blurts out, his words fueled by plenty of loathing, enough to set a fire. Reddington raises his brows—there's way too much rage in the agent's voice.

“Can't help but notice your poor vocabulary, Agent Ressler,” he says kindly; and then his gaze shifts onto the beer can.

A can of a cheap skunky beer that any man, left with as much as an ounce of self-respect, wouldn't buy.

If only he isn't an FBI agent who neither has the spare cash to waste on a good beer nor an opportunity to visit Octoberfest.

Reddington shakes his head.

“Don't tell me that this—your preferred weekend aperitif.”

Instead of answering, Ressler sniffs—his nose bleeds. Reddington raises from his chair and simultaneously draws out a handkerchief from his pants pocket.

As if a loose violin string, the chain screeches. Ressler—he's trying his best to hide it—is afraid. Reddington hears the fear in his rapid breathing when he—careful not to apply any excessive pressure—touches Ressler's skin.

“Who gave you the lead, Donald?”

A thick layer of soot and caked blood veils his features. With the handkerchief's corner, Reddington wipes the blood off Ressler's mouth, failing to comprehend _why_ he is doing it.

He reads the same question in Ressler's eyes.

_Why?_

* * *

_His father drapes a military tunic over the back of an armchair._

_Andrei knows what it means. Knows what will happen if he tells his mother._

_The belt buckle clinks. The stench of alcohol clogs up his nose, and Andrei almost throws up all over the floor in his father's study. The only thing holding him is that his father will make him scrub the polished parquet with a toothbrush, and also, the entire house, too._

_His father couldn't care less where to land punches—why would he, if there are thousands of plausible excuses: fell off a bike, slipped over a threshold, burned himself with hot water..._

_A whimper slips through his lips—and his father doesn't like it._

_“Get up! Now! Look me in the eyes, bitch! In the eyes!”_

_“...enough sniveling! You're a man or what?”_

* * *

Reddington folds a besmirched handkerchief and puts it back into his pocket.

“Farzid Zamani?”

Ressler swallows—his Adam's apple bobs down.

“Joseph Veres?”

Of course, these names—aren't everyone Reddington has rubbed up the wrong way or insulted. For instance, recently, Red has refused Zamani. An oil market is, no doubt, appealing, and he owns a small sliver of shares in ‘Texas Petroleum’, but depending on market fluctuations isn't his style. Zamani must have taken his refusal personally. Maybe, the fact Red has bedded one of his five wives adds to this too...

Joseph is another story, but he also has a motive. Usually, he handles the European customs, making sure Reddington's clients are greenlit. Red doesn't ask what's in the trucks; his agenda—to secure a hassle-free customs pass and accompany the cargo to its final destination.

Two weeks ago, Joseph didn't grease customs officers' hands, and, as a result, trucks were halted, clients—distressed, losing their money. And, more importantly—losing their trust in Red as a reliable business partner.

But why would Joseph bother with such an intricate scheme? His connections in the World Customs Organization allow him to just shut down all the customs operations. But he hasn't done that.

Reddington circles Ressler, pondering.

There is plenty of people who wish nothing more than to see him in a body bag, but most of them would have never gone to the FBI, risking their businesses and reputations.

In his experience, those who have nothing to lose snitch far more often than those who don't.

* * *

  
A fortuitous coincidence, Armand Bouchet was dining at the same waterfront restaurant in Nice he did. On that evening, a man, unfamiliar to Red, had joined Bouchet at the table. He couldn't tell Manet from Monet, and Red couldn't resist making an ironic remark, drawing attention to himself. When the stranger finally left them, the third bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon had loosened Armand's tongue. In his free time—Bouchet was an art restorer at the Museum of Fine Arts—he side-hustled forging paintings.

For the next couple of years, Reddington would grow a substantial clientele base, arrange art deals, haggling to get the best price, and receive a fair commission fee. He soon navigated in the art world better than any UCLA alumnus, but with each deal, he couldn't brush off a feeling something was missing.

He and Bouchet had parted ways more or less peacefully, without spite, although after some time, Reddington learned that since Bouchet had been on his own, he was going through a rough patch. Clients left, and then tax authorities cracked down on him—usually stingy Bouchet hadn't oiled their hands.

Red had heard stories that a few months ago, Bouchet tried to peddle one of his forgeries to some senator who was refreshing himself in Nice. Unfortunately for Bouchet, in the past, the senator was into art history and spotted the fake right away, unleashing the FBI onto the disaster artist.

* * *

  
The first time he and Anslo Garrick had crossed paths in Kosovo, Reddington supplied the ammo to Kosovars fighting to reclaim their right for independence while NATO dropped bombs onto civilians.

The second time—in The Gambia, where radical leftists took the President's family hostage while he was visiting Princess Diana's wedding in London. Anslo and his SAS commandos were juggling two tasks simultaneously—rescue the hostages and suppress the coup d'état.

Reddington liked Anslo,—ambitious, committed professional—and he offered Garrick to work for him. He needed men for his squad, but instead of trigger-happy mercenaries, Red preferred ex-vets or recently demobilized officers. After a while, Anslo set up his own business—security auditing of classified compounds.

Their cooperation grew into a partnership, then—in a friendship. Perhaps, it was the reason Reddington hadn't noticed—or didn't want to—Anlso drifting away, fancying a questionable company of guerrillas who don't have any respect either for law or conscience.

The actions Anlso had taken on Red's behalf soon became impossible to ignore, and Red decided to cut off all ties with him.

* * *

  
Red got acquainted with Jacek Kucharski in Chicago, where he was trying to set a money-laundering network. He already had two ferries plying between Chicago and the Canadian border across Lake Michigan and wanted to acquire the third. And though the port terminal manager received a five-digit sum onto his offshore account, money had remained an issue for Red. Not its absence, quite the opposite—his bookkeeping branch in Chicago was flooding with dirty cash.

Jacek had immigrated to Chicago in the Prohibition era, so he had Red pegged the moment he met him, not falling for ‘an amateur entrepreneur looking to open a restaurant’. Reddington found Jacek's frankness appealing. They managed to come to an agreement that from now on, all Jacek's joints in Chicago—Jacek owned small but profitable diners selling not just cheap Polish take-outs but also apple cider “Kwaśne Jabłko”—would be a part of the cash laundering scheme. Reddington had savored the cider so much he decided to export it to Canada, securing a cover for himself.

When his bookkeepers uncovered the discrepancies in Jacek's books, Reddington ordered surveilling Jacek, a part of him refusing to accept the old man had been ripping him off.

Turned out that recently, Jacek had become a gambling aficionado. His money was pouring out faster than water from a faucet: he was owing to betting shops. A lot more he could allow to pay back in time. Jacek was strapped for cash—and didn't hesitate to pick Reddington's pocket.

After some time, the Irish who owned the shops he had been frequenting at a lot—always a free drink even if one had succumbed to defeat—took interest in him. They, learning about whom he had been working for, had bought out his business pennies for the dollar, and on top of it—Jacek's loyalty.

* * *

Pausing in front of Ressler, Reddington goes up to him so close he can see the tiniest threads of broken capillaries on his face.

“This is a bootless errand, Donald. One of these days, the system will wash you up on a shore, leaving you flitter until you expire due to oxygen shortage.”

The corners of Ressler's lips flinch—for a brief second, it seems to Red right now he'll hear the... But instead of words, Ressler lifts his chin upwards, and, putting into this gesture all the audacity he has left, defiantly locks his eyes on him.

With a smirk across his face, Red gives a sign to Brimley, goes back to his chair, and opens a new beer.

This time, Brimley doesn't attach the electrode pads—he is using portable hand-held electrode paddles to amplify the impact area. He gestures to one of the guards how to turn the knobs on a defibrillator; then—approaches Ressler and puts the paddles underneath his ribs.

In less than an instant, Ressler's body unbends like a spring, and the chain, rattling, jerks upwards along with him.

* * *

  
“Since you're not telling me the name, then tell me who took the shot.”

Ressler grits his teeth so hard that Reddington sees the outline of his jawbone.

“Agent Ressler, who took the shot?”

_Be-ee-p! Be-ee-p! Be-ee-p! Be-ee-p!_

Ressler bounces back and forth, left-and-right as if strapped into a seat on a rollercoaster. The sounds, bursting out of his throat, would make opera singers jealous, and Reddington covers his ears—he has forgotten about the earplugs completely.

Discerning utterances in the yelling, Red takes his palms off.

“YOU FUCKING COCKROACH! FUCKING COMMS! IF THEY WORKED, I'D 'VE BLOWN YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF! FUCKING INTERPOL! FUCKERS! I WOULDN'T 'VE MISSED!”

From the corner of his mouth, saliva drips, and Ressler's torso is grazed with zigzagged defibrillator marks. His body shudders as if he has just been pulled out from Great Siberian Polynya.

Standing up, Reddington raises his hand, and goes up to Ressler, cutting the distance between them short in two strides.

“Correct me if I'm wrong. So, the Interpol hasn't sanctioned the op?”

A vein throbs on Ressler's cheekbone, confirming his guess.

It doesn't take him long to picture Agent Ressler, with his tac gear on, in position: _cheek pressed to a sniper rifle stock, finger on the trigger, in the crosshairs—the shop, he, Reddington, is striding to..._

_In the breast pocket of his bulletproof vest, a walkie-talkie is cracking._

_Ressler's trigger finger twitches involuntarily._

_POP!  
_

Reddington's lips stretch in a wide grin.

“I'm glad your nerves are so jangled, Donald. Perhaps, it has saved my life. Thank you,” Red tips his hat.

Ressler lunges at him, the chain formidably clamoring above his head, hissing from pain when the links cut into his neck. Red reaches out to help— _they can't have him withered before he talks_ —but Donald wrestles even more vigorously.

“Why making this harder on yourself, Donald? I need your informant. Not you, not the FBI. Just the man who gave you a lead, who ventured you into Emerald across the yellow brick road.”

For a few instants, a wrinkle nestles between Ressler's eyebrows as if he's thinking over the offer.

“No...? Suit yourself.”

Reddington gives Brimley a nod—and he takes over his place.

A couple of hours ago, Ressler has resisted and cried at half of his strength, and now he yells at the top of his lungs, almost spitting his glands out. Each dose of an electric current intensifies his screams—something between a fox's yelp and kookaburra's hollering.

His body either shrivels up or uncurls, throbbing and wriggling, and the air reeks of charred meat—it seems Brimley has underestimated the impact and burned his skin. _He did, indeed_ —Reddington notices a paddle's reddish marking stamped onto Ressler's abdomen.

* * *

Reddington knows the interrogation routine well enough to recognize Ressler has reached the edge. Red waves a hand, giving a sign to the guards.

“Pull him down.”

No answer is given yet, but another round serves no purpose: the FBI agents are tough, but they aren't insured against a stroke. So far, Ressler is conscious but struggling to focus—he either raises or drops his eyelids, and the fingers on his left hand are convulsing spastically.

The guard fumbles with the handcuffs and doesn't notice Ressler—his legs barely holding him upright—plunging forward like an awkward scarecrow in the wind.

Red takes a step forward and catches him around the waist, putting Ressler's arm over his shoulder. He nods at the guard, and together they lay him down onto the floor.

Ressler is barely trembling, his body glistening with sweat. A pungent smell of sweat, burnt hair, and blood is hanging across the room, and Reddington, not entirely grasping, what for, takes the guard's leather jacket and covers Ressler with it.

Ressler is attempting to hold Red's gaze—his light eyelashes quiver. His left eyelid is twitching, eyes are tearing up—translucent droplets roll down his cheekbones, disappearing in his sweat-dampened hair.

“You're protecting a coward,” Red utters, his voice quiet. He adjusts the jacket, pulling it up onto the white shoulder, and looks Ressler in the eye again. “Whoever it was, he used you to settle a score. He doesn't care about “Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity,” you have become a pawn in his game.”

Ressler parts his lips but doesn't utter a sound. Red hears hoarse, wheezy breathing, and Ressler averts his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

“Donald.”

Ressler blinks—one time, another, and then his blurred gaze alters into a conscious one but he doesn't look at him yet. Red allows himself a brief smile.

“I applaud your tenacity. I admire it—as well as your loyalty and unwavering resolve,” Red pauses. “You're willing to perish, Donald, die a hero's death but not be a disgrace to the Bureau, and I respect your decision. But I don't want you to die. I only need a name.”

Ressler's shallow breathing interrupts: he moves his lips again—to tighten them in a thin line—and obstinately furrows his brows.

And keeps silent.

Reddington shakes his head.

“Donald, you're giving up your life for a bad man. Now, you're not defending the weak and the innocent, you're defending the scum.” Reddington's voice is quiet, but he is articulating each word with precision so Ressler would hear it. “You are an intelligent man, after all. Arms trafficking in the Middle East, child slavery, prostitution; affordable, cheap drugs kids are buying in schools to deprive themselves of the future once and for all; illegal home-brewed liquor, tainted with methanol which causes a half million of decent, truly good people to die; major corporations facing bankruptcy due to securities fraud, financial machinations, tax evasion... Even financing international terrorism. You know this, I see you do. Do you think he'll appreciate your sacrifice? Your loyalty, your integrity? You?”

Two translucent droplets glide down Ressler's white skin. Red is silent, letting the venom of his words slither into the agent's ears—and when he registers some sort of a movement behind his back, he gestures sharply: _do not interfere and do not move; be still and quiet._ Ressler keeps staring at the ceiling, his eyes darting—left, right... Tears are trickling down again from under his swollen eyelids.

“Donald,” Reddington calls and lays his warm palm on an icy, clammy from sweat forearm. “He is not worth it. And you know it.”

Ressler blinks—and shifts his gaze at Reddington. His green eyes seem almost limpid. His lips move, and Red leans to him to make out the words.

“Gar...rick...”—Ressler whispers in two fleeting breaths—“Ans...lo”

Reddington's eyes harden. He rises, squeamishly brushes the sticky sweat feeling off his palm, and then adjusts his vest. The guards and Brimley look at him—and he answers them with a cold, absent stare.

His mind is preoccupied with something else.

 _Anslo._ Instead of sleeping bags and MREs, he has given him a taste of a good life, a purpose to exist beyond combat zones, utilize his skills for his own benefit, not somebody else's. He has taught him everything he knows, and, in a way, Anslo has surpassed him; but he has missed—or consciously looked the other way, which crippled his self-esteem even more so—one thing.

_A predator is always a predator._

Red hears Ressler's croaky breathing behind him; Brimley looks at him understandingly—the defibrillator is already packed, and should he tell so, everyone will clear the room.

“Leave us,” Reddington gives a brief order, turning his face to Ressler. There's a commotion behind his back—the guards pick the transformer and go away in a hurry, leaving them alone.

Ressler looks at him, silent. A ray of sunshine leaps across the wall and goes out, giving way to the rapidly falling dusk—in no time, it will be as dark here as in Vietnamese jungles at new moon.

Reddington goes up to a pile of Ressler's personal belongings. In an instant, he finds the holster and draws out a service handgun. “Glock” fits his hand just right, and Reddington gives it a sway, his eyes locked on Ressler, weighing his decision.

Ressler looks at him—knowingly; Red reads the inevitable in his eyes. He would have lunged at him... If only he had enough strength, if only his overstrained muscles wouldn't quiver, if only the electrical discharges weren't melting up in his body. There's always some kind of “if only”.

Reddington checks the mag—enough ammo. He racks the slide and aims the muzzle at Ressler, not uttering a word.

Ressler squints a little but doesn't avert his eyes. And Reddington likes it.

He pulls the trigger.

_POP!_

A casing drops against the floor, bouncing off it. Red pulls the mag out and thumbs the cartridges out: they, jingling, spill onto the floor. He racks the slide—the last cartridge, bouncing, hits the floor. The handgun follows next.

“I don't appreciate being indebted, Agent Ressler,” Reddington utters, glancing at the bullet hole a few inches from his head. “If you ever fancy a career change, let me know.”

And Reddington turns his back to him and walks away.

* * *

  
_His muscles are a bunch of wobbly jellyfish, and it costs him whole two seconds to argue with himself. But then his body stirs into motion—he darts forward, his stomach sliding across the floor, across debris, and snatches the gun. His hand is shaking—he grabs the cartridge, loads it into the mag, racks the slide with a honed, almost subconscious movement, and propels himself up on his elbow. His hand up, he is lying prone on the floor, aiming, and his palm is trembling while he's trying to get a grip of his handgun. Millions of miniscule rock fragments sting into his skin, his burns ache, but he has to shoot, has to..._

_Around him—darkness, and the sound of Reddington's footfalls has long ceased._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a gesture—leaving your killer alive. Quite poetic, isn't it?  
> //  
> I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know if you did <3
> 
> I don't know if I'll write more resslington stuff in the future—it has been lately a challenge for me to navigate through the fandom waters even with my "fuck-it-all" armor on. Either I have to invest into a better Kevlar, or buy a flamethrower...
> 
> Meanwhile I'm waiting for my fanfiction muse, I'm hoping to slip into (vid) editing and giffing, so that a handful of resslington/pressler/presslington comrades will be given something to brighten their days, me included.
> 
> Be safe, take care, and please, stay human in any situation.


End file.
